Freed

Chapter 3: Conflicting Emotions

Mark makes quick strides towards another one of the many rooms lining the hall. Hand twisting the door knob as he bursts in with a devilish grin.

He clasps his hands together with a smile so wide that it looked like it hurt.

"So, where's this master plan of yours?" He asks, looking around, expecting something amazing to pop out of no where.

A dozen men look up from their round work table, some smiling and others frozen in place. There was a soft murmur in the room, talking about who will step up and inform their boss. Finally, after several minutes of discussion, some unfortunate man was pushed up.

His blond hair was ruffled up as sweat beaded his forehead. His palms were shaking as he gulps.

Mark raises an eyebrow, hands behind his back as he taps a foot impatiently.

"Well?"

"Well," the blond murmurs under his breath, stuttering and unsure what to say. "W-we ha-have it he-here sir,"

"Excellent!" Mark exclaims, walking over to the blond and patting him on the shoulder. The employee sighs in relief, following his boss from behind, his fellow employees giving him thumbs ups and pitiful glances.

He looks left and right, his almost greying hair sweeping over his eyes. Mark Andrews was a man that looked far too young for his age. He liked that.

Stuffing his hands inside his pocket, he spots a woman with her brown hair tied in a bun. Her hands were grabbing the hem of a large fabric covering something.

She smiles at her boss, one of the very few in the room not intimidated by the fact that Mark was standing in front of her.

"Good afternoon, sir." She says casually, pulling the sheet off.

It was a whiteboard full of sketches in several different colors. Red, blue and black ink splattered all over. Arrows pointing everywhere, words sitting here and there, drawings and sketches dominating the whole thing.

Mark couldn't help but smile and laugh.

On the whiteboard was the sketch of Mr. Andrews' hideout, the one where White and the others lay in hopes of not being seen.

"I better scold my son, he's not doing as good as I expect." Mark mutters to himself. "This game will be over far before they could even reach my turf."

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Bam! Bam! Bam!

Sweat drips from the blond's forehead as his teeth bit on his gum.

Dimitry was finally up and going, using his good left arm to strike at the punching bag. Occasionally, he'd "try" to use his injured one, gaining a not so good feeling. He'd been at it for an hour already.

He remembers Adam watching him like a hawk, telling him that White ordered him to stay. He smiles at the thought, happy that she cared. But time was running out. They had a week before ambush and a wounded arm isn't gonna help that much.

His plan wasn't concrete. There were several holes needing to be filled. It was bound for failure if he didn't revise it.

Dimitry's blue eyes land on his shoulder. He bites the lower half of his lips, wondering when he could actually fire a gun. He tried sixty seven minutes ago. But after one shot, the gun's recoil was far too powerful for his bad arm to even take.

And here he was, punching on a punching bag with one arm. He knows that he looks pathetic. With his blond hair all messed up, his shirt and shorts wrinkled and his right arm drooping to his side. He didn't look like he could do much damage.